staring eyes, not softened by an excess of blue eyeshadow, and a large, hooked nose, approaching at speed made Rupert feel grateful he had the protection of the headmaster’s authority and military bearing at his side. Yet it seemed as though the woman had not registered the fact that the headmaster was there, even though she was on a collision course.
Only at the last possible moment, as the woman reached the foot of the stairs, did she sidestep rather clumsily, missing the Campions entirely but brushing against the headmaster’s shoulder. As she accelerated by and almost sprinted down the corridor, the Campions registered that a vocal exchange had taken place through gritted teeth and tight lips on both sides.
‘Brigham.’
‘Hilda.’
It was only when his hand was on the handle of the door to the staff room and there was an ebb in the tide of passing schoolboys that Mr Armitage offered an explanation of sorts.
‘That was Hilda Browne,’ he said to Perdita, ‘and this was clearly not a good time for introductions, but you will have to meet her at some point. You see, she’s your Helen of Troy.’
FIVE
Dragons’ Den
T wo of the pupils who had taken evasive action to avoid being trampled by the hurtling Hilda Browne watched the door of the staff room close behind the headmaster and his visitors and exchanged knowing looks with the world-weariness only fourteen-year-old boys can conjure at will on the slightest excuse.
‘Do you think that’s the replacement for Barmy Bertie?’ asked the larger of the two in a conspiratorial whisper.
‘Could be; how should I know?’ replied the other with studied indifference.
‘You two should get on well. All you carrot-tops stick together.’
‘Don’t be a dunce, Andy. Just because we’ve both got ginger hair doesn’t mean we’re related and anyway, if he is the stand-in for poor Bertie, you’ll see more of him than I will on the rugby field with the under-fifteens.’
The two boys, their school blazers and ties hanging fashionably askew, kept their voices low as they descended the stairs until the satisfying click of the staff room door signalled the all-clear. Only then did the boys’ voices resume their normal volume which a casual eavesdropper, had there been one, would have categorized as ‘argumentative’ given that the boys, as fourteen-year-olds of that sex are prone to do, punctuated their conversation with violent shoulder-to-shoulder nudges as if trying to force each other off a narrow bridge.
‘So who d’you reckon the dolly bird is?’ murmured Andrew Ramsden suggestively, being a boy who liked to appear older and more worldly than his age, though rarely convincingly. Had he been able to grow a moustache, he would probably have twirled it.
The ginger-haired Roderick Braithwaite refused to engage into the nudge-wink banter his friend favoured. ‘I don’t know if she’s a dolly bird but she looks nice.’
‘
Nice?
You fancy her then?’ leered his compatriot.
Roderick sighed, ignored the barb and retaliated as only a good friend would, with one of his own. ‘You’d better get a move on if you’re catching the same bus as Horrible Hilda. I bet she’s saved a seat for you. She
likes
you; you’re her favourite.’
Despite himself, Andy Ramsden felt himself blushing. ‘It’s not me, it’s my Dad she wants to keep in with!’ he protested.
‘Got a crush on policemen, has she?’
Young Ramsden began his riposte in the time-honoured way among schoolboys by shoulder-charging his friend. It was a relaxed, almost nonchalant collision of bodies, without significant force or great malice.
‘She’s always on at Dad about vandalism or littering or Teddy Boys, as she calls them, hanging around the phone box, not to mention speeding cars. She’s gone mental about that after what happened to Barmy Bertie. If I catch that bus she’ll just start nagging me about how Dad should be doing more about speed limits and road safety.’
‘Do you
Only at the last possible moment, as the woman reached the foot of the stairs, did she sidestep rather clumsily, missing the Campions entirely but brushing against the headmaster’s shoulder. As she accelerated by and almost sprinted down the corridor, the Campions registered that a vocal exchange had taken place through gritted teeth and tight lips on both sides.
‘Brigham.’
‘Hilda.’
It was only when his hand was on the handle of the door to the staff room and there was an ebb in the tide of passing schoolboys that Mr Armitage offered an explanation of sorts.
‘That was Hilda Browne,’ he said to Perdita, ‘and this was clearly not a good time for introductions, but you will have to meet her at some point. You see, she’s your Helen of Troy.’
FIVE
Dragons’ Den
T wo of the pupils who had taken evasive action to avoid being trampled by the hurtling Hilda Browne watched the door of the staff room close behind the headmaster and his visitors and exchanged knowing looks with the world-weariness only fourteen-year-old boys can conjure at will on the slightest excuse.
‘Do you think that’s the replacement for Barmy Bertie?’ asked the larger of the two in a conspiratorial whisper.
‘Could be; how should I know?’ replied the other with studied indifference.
‘You two should get on well. All you carrot-tops stick together.’
‘Don’t be a dunce, Andy. Just because we’ve both got ginger hair doesn’t mean we’re related and anyway, if he is the stand-in for poor Bertie, you’ll see more of him than I will on the rugby field with the under-fifteens.’
The two boys, their school blazers and ties hanging fashionably askew, kept their voices low as they descended the stairs until the satisfying click of the staff room door signalled the all-clear. Only then did the boys’ voices resume their normal volume which a casual eavesdropper, had there been one, would have categorized as ‘argumentative’ given that the boys, as fourteen-year-olds of that sex are prone to do, punctuated their conversation with violent shoulder-to-shoulder nudges as if trying to force each other off a narrow bridge.
‘So who d’you reckon the dolly bird is?’ murmured Andrew Ramsden suggestively, being a boy who liked to appear older and more worldly than his age, though rarely convincingly. Had he been able to grow a moustache, he would probably have twirled it.
The ginger-haired Roderick Braithwaite refused to engage into the nudge-wink banter his friend favoured. ‘I don’t know if she’s a dolly bird but she looks nice.’
‘
Nice?
You fancy her then?’ leered his compatriot.
Roderick sighed, ignored the barb and retaliated as only a good friend would, with one of his own. ‘You’d better get a move on if you’re catching the same bus as Horrible Hilda. I bet she’s saved a seat for you. She
likes
you; you’re her favourite.’
Despite himself, Andy Ramsden felt himself blushing. ‘It’s not me, it’s my Dad she wants to keep in with!’ he protested.
‘Got a crush on policemen, has she?’
Young Ramsden began his riposte in the time-honoured way among schoolboys by shoulder-charging his friend. It was a relaxed, almost nonchalant collision of bodies, without significant force or great malice.
‘She’s always on at Dad about vandalism or littering or Teddy Boys, as she calls them, hanging around the phone box, not to mention speeding cars. She’s gone mental about that after what happened to Barmy Bertie. If I catch that bus she’ll just start nagging me about how Dad should be doing more about speed limits and road safety.’
‘Do you
Similar Books
